


the sun and the sound

by sparrabethington



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Smoking, Sunrises, nick carraway aka closeted gay extraordinaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrabethington/pseuds/sparrabethington
Summary: His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes.
Relationships: Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 5
Kudos: 229





	the sun and the sound

**Author's Note:**

> the quote in the summary is from the book— this is basically sort of like a deleted excerpt from it bc that line really stood out to me for some reason

His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes.

It seemed to carry a different weight when it was devoid of guests. The mansion always gave me an impression like it had been built for exactly what Gatsby did with it, but when he and I were alone on its premises, it felt as though I were in an entirely different place than where I had partied on certain summer nights. It was ghastly.

Eventually I stumbled upon what I was searching for in one of the numerous rooms that lined the hallway. I took a moment to gaze around at silly old paintings that covered the wall and then I decided I should find my friend. I wandered back out down the hallway and peeked into his grand bedroom. To my delight, there he stood.

“I’ve found some,” I said simply, allowing myself into the room. Gatsby looked pleased.

“Good work, old sport!” His lips turned up into his familiar handsome smile and I realized at once that in this moment he seemed even more attractive to me than he normally did. He was bent over and rummaging through his night table, the sun’s first rays kissing his skin. His blonde hair was unkempt and his oceanic eyes betrayed evidence he hadn’t slept, and I thought I might become intoxicated on him. The top buttons on his shirt were open. His suspenders hugged his form tightly. I looked closely and noticed a flushed complexion on his tanned face.

All I found that I could do was smile in turn and nod. Gatsby straightened himself out and came near me to retrieve his reward for putting me to work. He plucked a cigarette from my hands and carried himself back to his bed, then sprawled out on its magnificent surface. He glanced up to me and wrapped his lips around the filter. “Don’t be shy.”

Although I felt my legs were made of lead, I accepted his invitation and sat nervously next to him. He lit his cigarette and passed me the lighter. I didn’t particularly feel like smoking, but I lit it up anyways.

Gatsby blew a thick ring of smoke up toward his ceiling and gazed out the large glass windows that faced his bed. The curtains had been pulled back to reveal the rising sun, whose beams seemed drawn to his face like a magnet. I confess I looked at him too long, but I never regretted that, because the way I saw his eyes glint was worth every moment I ever spent in his company.

“What’ll you do?” I asked suddenly after a few moments of relaxed silence. Gatsby did not have an immediate response; instead, he shifted himself, cleared his throat, and smiled at me once more.

“I’m not sure, old sport,” he said. “I’m sure Daisy will call. She’ll call any time now.”

I let my cigarette hang limply on my lips. “What if she doesn’t?”

Gatsby looked puzzled. “Why wouldn’t she?” For this I had no response.

We inhaled and he brought an ashtray between us. I crossed a leg over the other and allowed myself to lean back into the many pillows behind me. Gatsby seemed enthralled by whatever he’d been staring at outside. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I knew he was talking to me, but he did not turn his head. I glanced too long for the second time that morning. He looked exquisite, and I felt as though I was observing a specimen in a museum— “look, don’t touch”. 

He was drenched in the sunlight that morning and I will never forget the image. I distinctly recall the way his lips would tenderly brush against his cigarette and how the smoke teased them. I remember that whenever he looked at me he looked adoringly, and he didn’t seem to mind that he’d caught me staring directly at him. There was something so boyish yet so sophisticated about him, and he still seemed so shrouded in mystery even in such a vulnerable moment such as this. He looked tantalizing, surrounded by haziness and light and everything good I could have imagined at that time.

“Something’s on your mind, old sport,” he said. It was not a question.

“My mind is never empty,” I told him, pinching the cigarette in my fingers. “How could you tell?”

“I like to think I know you.” Gatsby was now looking at me, turned away from the sunrise over the Sound. His attention felt good. I wanted so badly to grow accustomed to it. “What is it?”

Against my better judgment, I spoke without thinking. When I think back on this memory I try to justify my actions to myself when I suppose at this point in time I really had nothing to lose, because I knew that Gatsby was planning to run away with Daisy and nothing I could do could rework his plans. To this day I still wonder if this moment was a dream or reality. The distinction has become blurred.

“Have you ever been with a man, Jay?”

I half expected him to laugh or be disgusted, but he wasn’t. In fact, he seemed to be considering his answer carefully. The silence was uncomfortable, so I shifted, and did not take my eyes from him.

“I’ve thought about it,” he said at last, voice strained.

“What exactly have you imagined?” I felt rather guilty for pressing but I needed answers desperately.

Gatsby, surprisingly, did not seem put off by my line of questioning. “Kissing,” he said with ease, “and touching. I think about touching men often.”

I gulped. My lungs were heavy with smoke and my eyes with sleep, but suddenly my stomach was heavy with desire. He took note of my reactions and cocked his head. “How about you, old sport?”

“I’ve thought about kissing you,” I said at last after a particularly deep breath. “Often.”

At this he seemed interested. “What do you think about?”

“When I see you with Daisy I imagine you and I,” I said, my anxiety miraculously melting away. As I continued to tell him I longed for his arms around me and his lips on my cracked skin he lowered his cigarette into the ashtray and looked up at me with large and curious eyes.

“Do you want to kiss me now, Nick?”

Another gulp. “I always want to kiss you.”

He allowed me to. I lay my cigarette next to his and dove closer to him, catching his lips rather clumsily but endearingly. I felt the sun’s August heat beating through the windows onto our bodies and for the first time since my arrival in New York I felt truly at peace.

Gatsby tasted like smoke and money and I revelled in every bit that I could get. It turned more eager as he brought himself closer and his skin touched my skin, and as my tongue grazed his lips my heart broke with the realization that he was humoring me and his heart still longed for my cousin. He flit his fingers through the wispy hairs stuck with sweat to my forehead and I felt him dissolving into me. At the very least he seemed to be enjoying himself.

When he broke away he breathed deeply and gave me a heartwarming grin, one which I returned. I even laughed, and he laughed too, and together we laughed at how scandalous and exhilarated we both felt.

“You know, old sport,” Gatsby began while he took back his drug, “you could have asked at any time.”

Normally I think I would have been annoyed with him, but this morning I was not. “And how would I have gone about that?”

“I did tell you to simply ask if you ever needed anything from me.”

I hummed in thought. “Again?”

Without hesitation, his lips were pressed to mine once more.


End file.
